Where Frankincense Grow

Yesterday, I left the noise behind — left the buzz of the city, the weight of expectations, the constant need to be somewhere doing something.

From the moment the sun cracked open the sky, I was gone.

I hiked into silence.

Between towering cliffs and valleys carved by time, I walked.

The scent of wild frankincense still clings to my hands — I found it raw, nestled like a secret in a traditional wooden bowl, its milky tears catching the first light.

In one photo, I’m just a blur behind it. And honestly? That’s how I felt all day — small, soft, fading into something greater.

At one point, I stood under this giant tree — ancient, cracked, holding its ground among rocks like bones. Sunlight spilled through its branches like it had something to say.

Maybe it did.

By the time I reached the valley’s edge, the world behind me was just a distant hum.

I was dust-covered, soul-full, and a little sunburnt — but deeply at peace.

This wasn’t just a hike.

It was a return —

to stillness,

to something older than me,

to the kind of quiet that doesn’t demand anything, but somehow gives you everything.